


How to Make Friends With Demons Who Influence People

by AnOddSock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, POV Gadreel (Supernatural), Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22302484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/pseuds/AnOddSock
Summary: Gadreel doesn't really like the things he has to do for his role in Metatron's plan but there's not a lot he can do about it and still be trusted, is there?
Comments: 17
Kudos: 17
Collections: SPNColdestHits





	How to Make Friends With Demons Who Influence People

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The sky was blue and the stars were blue and the sun was blue and the water was blue and the clouds were blue and the blue sky was like a piece of glass... and Gadreel did not understand the allure of sunglasses. If he looked through only his vessel’s eyes ignoring everything his angelic senses could comprehend, everything was just… blue. A slight, tinted, hint of a colour that flattened everything onto one plane of sameness. Humans were, he was learning, _weird_.

“Will you take those off!” A small hand batted at his face, Metatron too short to actually reach the glasses perched on his nose.

“People use these so they remain inconspicuous. And you said I should try blending in,” Gadreel countered, slowly removing the sunglasses and leaning away from Metatron’s wild attempts to corral him. 

“Well, sure yes I did say that, but not _now._ We’re about to have a very important meeting, I need you to look dignified, imposing. Not… not…”

“Yes?”

“Not like some hobo who picked up a pair of shades from the land that time forgot!”

“The land that time…?”

“It’s, it’s a metaphor, and a mixed one at that. Look, just be _normal_ okay? You can learn to assimilate on your own time.” Metatron straightened his sweater vest and shuffled his feet, ending the conversation with a curt nod to indicate he was done talking about this.

He supposed it was a request he could agree to if Metatron ever let him _have_ his own time. If he was ever not on a mission, or following orders, or on duty. He sighed, quietly. He supposed this was the bed he had made, and now he would have to lie in it. What else was there to do?

* * *

There was always an itch below his skin when he did Metatron’s dirty work. A niggling, unavoidable sensation that he bore every time he committed another act of violence, betrayed another angel, subdued another opponent. An itch that crawled beneath his consciousness and whispered _wrong wrong wrong._

It never fully went away but he could quiet it by doing small things that seemed right to him, at least for a little while. When he found himself before the King of Hell — self professed and probably won by violence, but apparently that wasn’t as an issue — he thought this would be an easy mission. Evil was evil, right? It should be straight forward. However Crowley’s rambling, impassioned ranting struck a nerve in him he thought long dulled. It was…. this demon he… was he fanning the flames of inspiration? He was so much more _likeable_ and the very thought twanged a discordance in Gadreel’s brain. How could he like an agent of evil more than the soon-to-be leader of heaven?

He shook himself, it wouldn’t do to be caught daydreaming when danger was mere feet away, and tuned back in to the demons ranting:

“... calling on _me,_ to back _him?_ What kind of low self esteem does he think I have? You angels can run around doing whatever you want, lord knows I have better things to do than try and stop you. But he thinks _he_ can summon me? _Me?_ I don’t answer to that jumped up wanna-be dictator!”

Obedience sprang to life at hearing his leader being admonished when he was the only one present. "He is the scribe of God!"

"He's God's suck up is he what he is, nursing on the everlasting gobstopper of Epic Suck, and worst of all he's got a taste of what it's like at the top and now he's trying to make a new world order!"

So taken aback by this vehemence, Gadreel could only watch slightly bemused as the demon-king began to pace and gesticulate even more animatedly.

"And I've been there done that, you know? Does no-one remember when I tried to ride the Leviathons to victory, to make hell come out on top? At least come up with a unique plan if you're going to go for a shot at ruling the cosmos, but he's so wrapped up in all his stories he can't come up with an original idea!"

Gadreel zoned out again, watching the little arms — still with more reach than Metatron’s, at least physically — wave around angrily before Crowley came to a stop and heaved a breath. 

“My point is, you,” — he jabbed a finger at Gadreel — “could do a lot better than puppy-dogging around after that jumped up, bedraggled little author. And you could certainly do a lot more to put a wrench in his plans if you put half a brain cell into thinking about it. I mean really… heaven's longest prisoner and you're still batting for the feathered team? Have a little backbone, Gaddy."

“What, pray, would you suggest I do?”

“Let’s start by just pretending I never showed hhmm? A little scuff of a boot, a flick of the wrist and this devils trap can be of no consequence. I’ll be out of your hair. You can tell Metatron I never showed to our meet and greet, no-one has to be any the wiser.”

Gadreel considered it. He didn’t like seeing anyone confined, but he couldn’t let the demon go for nothing. The itch dug claws into his thoughts, and he felt a flicker of an idea take shape.

“I shall bargain with you. If, say, a small amount of help could be offered in the exchange?”

“Now we’re talking, name your price.”

* * *

Scarves were a mystery for many reasons. One, because they were impractical with how much they slipped off the shoulders or impeded free movement; two, because they were either too big or too small; and three, because if humans wanted an extra layer, why not put on an entire extra layer? Why all of this… fuss?

Whatever their faults he had tried on all of them, in two different establishments, and picked out the most impressive one he could find.

The one he wore now was more of a blanket, huge and unwieldy it covered his entire shoulders thrice around and draped down below his navel. He could feel the weight of it on his vessel’s shoulders, how he had to either stand straighter to accommodate it or slump under the slight pressure. He chose to slump, and to then proceed with his meeting with Metatron like nothing was amiss.

Finally, when he was dismissed, Metatron made a noise of derision.

“And what are you wearing?”

“A scarf, humans like them. I am trying to be as you instructed me.”

“Hmppf, it looks ridiculous.”

“I do believe it’s called being… hipster.”

“It’s stupid. Take it off.”

He unwound the scarf and dumped it into the tiny trash can by Metatron’s desk. It folded into it, overflowed, doubled up the height of the can and then toppled it over with its weight. He raised an eyebrow, turned on his heel and left to the sound of Metatron spluttering _“Don’t, I didn’t mean leave it here! Come back, this, it doesn’t fit! How is there_ **_so much….!”_ **

He smirked. Well, that certainly got a reaction.

* * *

Crowley’s instructions had been very clear. He must be his own man. He couldn’t do exactly as he pleased, that would leave him out in the cold again shunned by the one angel who’d seen him and taken — not pity, he wouldn’t believe it was pity — an _interest_ in him, and given him a chance.

When he’d explained this to the demon, Crowley had smiled with a twinkle in his eye that spoke of mischief and spread his hands.

 _“Well then, I suppose you’ll just have to comply with his every request. To the_ **_letter_ ** _.”_

Gadreel had been nonplussed and Crowley had rolled his eyes and scoffed. _“Let me teach you two very important little words Gaddy -- Malicious Compliance”_

And Metatron’s newest request was that he "learn to use the humans technology to his own benefit, as well as to the benefit of all angels."

He’d thought about it for a long time. Considered how best to follow this latest rule to the most effect.

He was inexplicably proud of himself for his solution. During a negotiation with a rival faction leader he walked in holding a personal computer under his arm, Metatron raised his eyebrows and nodded in approval. Gadreel smiled back serenely. Metatron insisted drinks were needed -- though he couldn’t fathom _why,_ as none of them actually required sustenance -- and he whipped out the laptop with a flourish. He balanced a drink for each present member on the smooth, flat surface, and carried them carefully across the room.

Metatron’s face darkened.

“Thank you Gadreel, that will be all," he said pointedly. "Go and retrieve the information I requested.”

“I have it here, as I promised.” He opened the laptop and brought out the file folder that he’d carried safely between it’s sturdy clasped shut halves.

“What a clever little case to carry things in,” an angel in a grey suit said.

“Ingenious,” nodded another.

“You have quite the smart operation here, Metatron.”

Gadreel watched Metatron’s face war with itself before he forced a smile. “And that, my friends, is why you should join with us!”

Metatron glared at him as he left, and smiled broadly and held up the laptop so Metatron could see him close it carefully back up, devoid of papers this time. He nodded enthusiastically and closed the door behind him as Metatron turned a deep shade of purple.

* * *

No matter what he did Metatron wanted him to be _more._ More human, more approachable, more in-the-know.

As if Metatron’s knitted attire and pressed trousers ever looked anything like what the humans wore. And, why, he wondered did Metatron even want them to look like humans? Weren’t they supposed to be gathering an _angel_ army? 

Perhaps it was all to appear less… heavenly, less aloof. Gadreel sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. He would enjoy being less like he used to be, and more free.

He tried many things, sparkly ties, heeled shoes, fingerless gloves. All of them made Metatron puff out his chest and worry at his beard in annoyance, Gadreel got many a pointed look, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Metatron chose mostly to ignore it. And sure he’d opted to continue behaving exactly how Metatron expected and talk strategy and take orders as though nothing had else had changed, but he was perpetually disappointed that nothing got more of a reaction besides a noisy exhale and a slight admonishment.

He needed to up his game if he was ever to sate this strange itch below his skin. He needed to be _more_ . He still wanted Metatron to win of course, that was for the best, he just needed to feel better about it. To feel like he wasn’t just a cog in a machine. He didn’t want to be a wrench in the plan either, which was why he followed along like a good little soldier, there just had to be _something_ to make him feel better.

He found himself calling on Crowley again, as much as it pained him to ask a demon for advice.

“Darling, you should have said sooner. I think I have something we can work with.” 

* * *

He had to wait for the right time. Wait for a task that sent him near to his goal. It came a mere week later, as Metatron sent him on a scouting mission to Los Angeles. When he returned heads swivelled in his direction all through the compound.

He held back a smile and walked into Metatron’s office with his back straight and his chin up.

Metatron’s eyes near popped out of his head. “What on God’s green earth… did you meet our new friend like that?”

“Do not worry Metatron. I believe this made me blend in well.” He dipped his head and took another sip of his bubbly caffeinated drink through the bendy straw that looped up in curves from the cup in his hand. “No-one looked at me suspiciously.”

“You-you look like a circus act! Or… or a delinquent!”

He hummed, and righted the plastic glasses that had slipped down his nose. They were irritating, bright pink and the “lens” a series of slats that obscured large swathes of the human range of vision.

“I achieved my mission with optimal results. This camouflage is quite effective. Every human in sight wore them, I did not stand out at all.”

He lifted a hand to rearrange the Mickey Mouse ears perched on his head and Metatron collapsed backwards into his desk chair with a pained groan.

“Then _please_ give me an update so we can get you out of those asinine things.”

Gadreel smothered a smile. Finally, a reaction worth breaking the rules for. The itch hummed happily, and he sucked another mouthful of soy vanilla frappe and savoured each and every molecule as it passed across his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Instead of commenting on or giving kudos to this, why not [go here](https://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/189416326005/january-2020-prompt-command-prompt-posting-dates) and see why I'm doing it at all?


End file.
